Endless wakeful hours of the night journey were peopled with thoughts and visions of Aruna--her pansy face and velvet-soft eyes, now flashing delicate raillery, now lifted in troubled appeal. A rainbow creature--that was the charm of her. Not beautiful--he thanked his stars; since his weakness for beauty amounted to a snare, but attractive--perilously so. For, in her case, the very element that drew him was the barrier that held them apart. The irony of it!

Was she lying awake too, poor child--missing him a little? Would she marry an Indian--ever? Would she turn her back on India--even for him?

Unanswerable questions hemmed her in. Could she even answer them herself? Too well he understood how the scales of her nature hung balanced between conflicting influences. As he was, racially, so was she, spiritually, a divided being; yet, in spite of waverings, Rajputni at the core, with all that word implies to those who know. If she lacked his mother's high sustained courage, her flashes of spirit shone out the brighter for her lapses into womanly weakness--as in that poignant moment by the tank, which had so nearly upset his own equilibrium.

Vividly recalling that moment, it hurt him to realise that weeks might pa.s.s before he could see her again. No denying he wanted her; felt lost without her. The coveted Delhi adventure seemed suddenly a very lonely affair; not even a clear inner sense of his mother's presence to bear him company. No dreams lately; no faint mystical intimation of her nearness, since the wonderful hour with his grandfather. Only in the form of that strange and lovely illusion had she seemed vitally near him since he left Chitor.

Graceless ingrat.i.tude--that 'only.' For now, looking back, he clearly saw how the beauty and bewilderment of that early phase--so mysteriously blending Aruna with herself--had held his emotions in cheek, lifted them, purified them; had saved him, for all he knew, from surrender to an overwhelming pa.s.sion that might conceivably have swept everything before it. Pure fantasy--perhaps. But he felt no inclination to argue out the unarguable. He preferred simply unquestioningly to believe that, under G.o.d, he owed his salvation to her. And after all--take it spiritually or psychologically--that was in effect the truth....

Towards morning, utter weariness lulled him into a troubled sleep--not for long. He awoke, chilled and heavy-eyed, to find the unheeded loveliness of a lemon-yellow dawn stealing over the blank immensity of earth and sky.

In a moment he was up, stretching cramped limbs, thanking goodness for a carriage to himself, leaning out and drinking huge draughts of crisp clean air, fragrant with the ghost of a whiff of wood smoke--the inimitable air of a Punjab autumn morning.

CHAPTER X.

"The tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things....

The tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison."--ST JAMES iii 5-8.

Roy spent ten days in Delhi--lodging with one Krishna Lal, a jewel merchant of high standing, well known to Sir Lakshman--and never a word or a sight of Dyan Singh. The need for constant precautions hampered him not a little; but if the needle he sought was in this particular haystack, he would find it yet.

Meanwhile, at every turn he was imbibing first impressions, a sufficiently enthralling occupation--in Delhi, of all places on earth: Delhi, mistress of many victors; very woman, in that she yields to conquer; and after centuries of romance and tragedy, remains, in essence, unconquered still. The old saying, 'Who holds Delhi, holds India,' has its dark counterpart in the unwritten belief that no alien ruler, enthroned at Delhi, shall endure. Hence the dismay of many loyal Indians when the British Government deserted Calcutta for the Queen of the North. And here, already, were her endless, secretive byways rivalling Calcutta suburbs as hornet-nests of sedition and intrigue.

Roy was to grow painfully familiar with these before his search ended.

But the city's pandemonium of composite noises and composite smells was offset by the splendid remnants of Imperial Delhi:--the Pearl Mosque, a dream in marble, dazzling against the blue: inlaid columns of the Dewan-i-Khas--every leaf wrought in jade or malachite, every petal a precious stone; swelling domes and rose-pink minarets of the Jumna Musjid rising superbly from a network of narrow streets and shabby toppling houses. For, in India, the sordid and stately rub shoulders with sublime disregard for effect. In the cool aloofness of tombs and temples, or among crumbling fragments of them on the plain, or away beyond the battered Kashmir Gate--ground sacred to heroic memories--he could wander at will for hours, isolated in body and spirit, yet strangely content....

And there was yet a third Delhi, hard by these two; yet curiously aloof: official, Anglo-Indian Delhi, of bungalows and clubs and painfully new Government buildings. Little scope here for imaginative excursions, but much scope for thought in the queer sensation, that beset him, of seeing his father's people, as it were, through his mother's eyes.

New as he was to Anglo-Indian life, these glimpses from the outskirts were sufficiently illuminating. Once he was present in the crowd at a big Gymkhana; and more than once he strolled through the Club gardens where social Delhi pursued tennis-b.a.l.l.s and shuttle-c.o.c.ks--gravely, as if life hung on the issue; or gaily, with gusts of laughter and chaff, often noisier than need be. And he saw them all, now, from a new angle of vision. Discreetly aloof, he observed, in pa.s.sing, the complete free-and-easiness of the modern maiden with her modern cavalier; personalities flying; likewise legs and arms; a banter-wrangle interlude over a tennis-racquet; flight and pursuit of the offending maiden, punctuated with shrieks, culminating in collapse and undignified surrender: while a pair of club peons--also discreetly aloof--exchanged remarks whose import would have enraged the unsuspecting pair. Roy knew very well they never gave the matter a thought. They were simply 'rotting' in the approved style of to-day. But, seen from the Eastern standpoint, the trivial incident troubled him. It recalled a chance remark of his grandfather's: "With only a little more decorum and seriousness in their way of life out here, they could do far more to promote good understanding socially between us all, than by making premature 'reforms' or tilting at barriers arising from opposite kinds of civilisation."

Here was matter for the novel--or novels--to be born of his errantry:--the 'fruit of his life' that _she_ had so longed to bold in her hands. Were she only at Home now, what letters-without-end he would be pouring out to her! What letters he could have poured out to Aruna--did conscience permit.

He allowed himself two, in the course of ten days; and the spirit moved him, after long abstention, to indulge in a rambling screed to Tara telling of his quest; revealing more than he quite realised of the inner stress he was trying to ignore. The quest, he emphasised, was a private affair, confided to her only, because he knew she would understand. It hurt more than he cared to admit to feel how completely his father would _not_ understand his present turmoil of heart and brain....

Isolated thus, with his hidden thwarted emotion, there resulted a literary blossoming, the most spontaneous and satisfying since his slow struggle up from the depths. Alone at night, and in the clear keen dawns, he wrote and wrote and wrote, as a thirsty man drinks after a desert march:--poems chiefly; sketches and impressions; his dearest theme the troubled spirit of India,--or was it the spirit of Aruna?--poised between crescent light and deepening shadow, looking for sane clear guidance--and finding none. A prose sketch, in this vein, stood out from the rest; a fragment of his soul, too intimately self-revealing for the general gaze: no uncommon dilemma for an artist, precisely when his work is most intrinsically true. Had he followed the natural urge of his heart, he would have sent it to Aruna. As it was, he decided to treasure it a little longer for himself alone.

Meantime Dyan--half forgotten--suddenly emerged. It was at a meeting--exclusively religious and philosophical; but the police had wind of it; and a friendly inspector mentioned it to Krishna Lal. The chief speaker would be a Swami of impeccable sanct.i.ty. "But if you have a sensitive palate, you will doubtless detect a spice of political powder under the jam of religion!" quoth Krishna Lal, who was a man of humour and no friend of sedition.

"Thanks for the hint," said Roy--and groaned in spirit. Meetings, at best, were the abomination of desolation; and his soul was sick of the Indian variety. For the 'silent East' is never happier than when it is talking at immense length; denouncing, inaugurating, promoting; and a prolonged dose of it stirred in Roy a positive craving for men who shot remarks at each other in 'straight-flung words and true.' But no stone must be left unturned. So he went;--guided by the friendly policeman, who knew him for a Sahib bent on some personal quest.

Their search ended in a windowless inner room; packed to suffocation; heavy with attar of rose, kerosene, and human bodies; and Roy as usual clung to a doorway that offered occasional respite.

The Swami was already in full flow:--a wraith of a man in a salmon-coloured garment; his eyes, deep in their sockets, gleaming like black diamonds. And he was holding his audience spellbound:--Hindus of every calling; students in abundance; a sprinkling of Sikhs and Dogras from the lines. Some form of hypnotism,--was it? Perhaps. Even Roy could not listen unmoved, when the spirit shook the frail creature like a gust of wind and the hollow chest-notes vibrated with appeal or command. Such men--and India is full of them--are spiritual dynamos. Who can calculate their effect on an emotional race? And they no longer confine their influence to things spiritual. They, too, have caught the modern disease of politics for the million. And the supreme appeal is to youth--plastic and impressionable, aflame with fervours of the blood that can be conjured, by heady words, into fervours infinitely more dangerous to themselves and their country.

In an atmosphere dense with spilled kerosene, with over-breathed air and over-charged emotion, that appeal rang out like a trumpet blast.

"It is to youth the divine message has come in all ages; the call to martyrdom and dedication. 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' said the inspired Founder of Christianity. So also I say in this time of revival, suffer the young to fling themselves into the arms of the Mother. My sons, she cries, go back to the Vedas. You will find all wisdom there. Reject this alien gift--however finely gilded--of a civilisation inferior to your own. Hindu Rishis were old in wisdom when these were still unclothed savages coloured with blue paint. Shall the sacred Motherland be inoculated with Western poison? It is for the young to decide--to act. Nerve your arms with valour. Bring offerings acceptable, to the shrine of Kali Mai. Does she demand a sheep? A buffalo? A cocoanut? Ask yourselves. The answer is written in your hearts----"

His emaciated arms shot up and outward in a gesture the more impressive because it was maintained. For a prolonged moment the holy one seemed to hover above his audience--as it were an eagle poised on outspread wings....

Roy came to himself with a start. His friend the policeman had plucked his sleeve; and they retreated a step or two through the open door.

"The Sahib heard?" queried Man Singh in cautious undertone.

"There's hearing--and hearing," said Roy, aware of some cryptic message given and understood. "I take it _they_ all know what he's driving at."

"True talk. They know. But _he_ has not said. Therefore he goes in safety when he should be picking oak.u.m in the jail khana. They are cunning as serpents these holy ones."

"They have the gift of tongues," said Roy. "May one ask what is Mai Kali's special taste in sacrifices?"

The Sikh gave him an odd look. "The blood of white goats--meaning Sahibs, Hazur."--Roy's 'click' was Oriental to a nicety.--"'A white goat for Kali' is an old Bengali catchword. Hark how their tongues wag. But there is still another--much esteemed by the student-_log_; one who can skilfully flavour a _pillau_[16] of learned talk, as the Swami can flavour a pillau of religion. Where he comes, there will be trouble afterwards, and arrests. But no Siri Chandranath. He is off making trouble elsewhere."

"Chandranath--_here_?" Roy's heart gave a jerk, half excitement, half apprehension.

"Your Honour has heard the man?"

"No. I'm glad of the chance."

As they entered, the second speaker stepped on to the platform....

True talk, indeed! There stood the boy who had whimpered under Scab Major's bullying, in the dark coat and turban of the educated Indian; his back half turned, in confidential talk with a friend, who had set a carafe and tumbler ready to hand. The light of a wall lamp shone full on his friend's face--clean-cut, handsome, unmistakable....

_Dyan_! Dyan--and Chandranath! It was the conjunction that confounded Roy and tinged elation with dismay. He could hardly contain himself till Dyan joined the audience; standing a little apart; not taking a seat.

Something in his face reminded Roy of the strained fervour in his letter to Aruna. Carefully careless, he edged his way through the outer fringe of the audience, and volunteered a remark or two in Hindustani.

"A full meeting, brother. Your friend speaks well?"

Dyan turned with a start. "Where are _you_ from, that you have not heard him?" He scrutinised Roy's appearance. "A hill man----?"

Roy edged nearer and spoke in English under his breath. "Dyan--look at me. Don't make a scene. I am Roy--from Jaipur."

In spite of the warning, Dyan drew back sharply. "_What_ are you here for--spying?"

"No. Hoping to find you. Because--I care; and Aruna cares----"

"Better to care less and understand more," Dyan muttered brusquely. "No time for talk now. Listen. You may learn a few things Oxford could not teach."

The implied sneer enraged Roy; but listen he must, perforce: and in the s.p.a.ce of half an hour he learnt a good deal about Chandranath and the mentality of his type.

To the outer ear, he was propounding the popular modern doctrine of 'Yoga by action.' To the inner ear he was extolling pa.s.sion and rebellion in terms of a creed that enjoins detachment from both; inciting to political murder, under sanction of the divine dictum, 'Who kills the body kills naught ... Thy concern is with action alone, never with results.' And his heady flights of rhetoric, like those of the Swami, were frankly aimed at the scores of half-fledged youths who hung upon his utterance.

"What are the first words of the young child? What are the first words in your own hearts?" he cried, indicating that organ with a dramatic forefinger. "_I want_! It is the pa.s.sionate cry of youth. By indomitably uttering it, he can dislodge mountains into the sea. And in India to-day there exist mountains necessary to be hurled into the sea!" His significant pause was not lost on his hearers--or on Roy.

"'Many-branched and endless are the thoughts of the irresolute.' But to him who cries ardently, '_I want_,' there is no impediment, except paucity of courage to s.n.a.t.c.h the seductive object. Deaf to the anaemic whisper of compunction, remembering that sin taints only the weak, he will be translated to that dizzy eminence, where right and wrong, truth and untruth, become as pigmies, hardly discerned by the naked eye. There dwells Kali--the shameless and pitiless; and believing our country that deity incarnate, _her_ needs must be our G.o.ds. 'Her image make we in temple after temple--Bande Mataram?'" The invocation was flung back to him in a ragged shout. Here and there a student leapt to his feet brandishing a clenched fist. "Compose your laudable intoxication, brothers. I do not say, 'Be violent.' There is a necromancy of the spirit more potent than weapons of the flesh:--the delusion of irresistible suggestion that will conquer even truth itself...."